
Ill 



..^^......■. -rmmmw^ma 




Class T 5 35 3S 
Book. .<0SlTl5 
GopyiigMN" \^^'^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



RIMES 

IN 

OLIVE DRAB 



By SERGEANT 
JOHN PIERRE ROCHE 






fEB \\ 1918 



©CI.A49224G 

A-M) . / 



To the American Foreign Legion 

God of might, give me the force of an arm 
Strong enough to wither when I strike; 

God of right, keep me freed from harm 
That I may die as I should like. 

I ask no craven's freedom from the toll 

Of the legions marching towards the night, 

But when my name is added to the scroll. 
Grant I have struck and struck with might. 

God of might, save me from a weakling's spleen, 
Give me the chance to strike as does a man — 

Not as a cog in a drilled machine. 

But in single fury as a freeman can. 

God of right, do not keep me long 

From skulking death, if it lie in wait. 

Lord, let me shout in Victory's song. 
Or be swept aside by an equal hate. 

God of might, hear my plea; 

Keep me not from, the strife and fray; 
Let me strike, O God of right. 

This very day, this very day! 



A Polish Alliance 

Romance has come into my life 

And come its way a-winging; 
Elusive sprite so often sought. 

And so my heart is singing. 
I never thought that I should meet 

My fate while clad in khaki, 
Because, remodel as you may, 

This issue stuff is tacky; 
But love is here and here to stay, 

To have and hold unending — 
I'll woo and win this latest love 

Against the world contending. 

No Norman maid has found her way 

Into my heart's abysses; 
No English girl has made me hers; 

In fact, no foreign misses 
Could claim the niche that this love owns 

Who makes my life so zestful. 
And yet I'll say my new love's name 

Is in a way distressful. 
I only hope my love's returned. 

He's but a simple rookie — 
A former Harvey chef who's now 

Warsinski, our new "cookie"! 



To a Crowd in a Cabaret 

The flash of flesh and shaded lights. 

The crack of corks and glutton's fare; 

The fog of smoke and laughter shrill: 
Is it for these that we prepare? 

The shift of feet and rhythmic beat 
Of banjo, drums and saxaphones, 

With swaying forms in serried throng: 
Is it for these that France atones? 

The preening glance and rounder's stare, 
The whirl and swirl of song and dance; 

"To jazz and jest!" with brimming glass: 
Is it for these they die in France? 



A Year From Now 

There is a pine tree 
Standing in the moonlight 
Where, from my tent, 
I can see it lift its head 
Against the sky, 
Standing guard over men 
Who, a year from now. 
May know such beauty 
Only through the voice 
Of others. 

Down the Company street 

A Victrola is playing — 

Julia Claussen is singing 

An aria from "Samson and Delilah" 

Yet, a year from now. 

Those listening men 

May hear only 

The wobbling hiss 

Of gas shells. 

In a tent across the way, 

A crowd of rookies 

Are singing 

"Good-bye Broadway — Hello France' 

With great gusto; 

And yet, a year from now. 

Those fresh young voices 

May be mute. 



To a Violinist 

{now a ''buck private") 

The throbbing tone of a violin 

With the tingling thrill of the concert hall? 
Played to a group in a trooper's tent, 

To ears attuned to a bugle call; 
A melody wrung by his fleeting bow 

With master touch and facile ease, 
To wing its way through the flapping walls — 

A Kreisler Caprice — ^his "Viennese". 

As his fingers stop on the lilting strings 

To touch a note to glowing life, 
It seems to be unthinking waste 

To pledge this gift in futile strife — 
A genius risked against a shell, 

A talent thrown without a thought 
On scales now bent with human weight — 

Is peace to be so dearly bought? 



To our Indulgent Friends 

''Today I got your letter, 

Saying that a sweater 

Was on its way to me" — 

(This makes the fifth that's flitting 

Our way from angels knitting 

For those to cross the sea) 

''The wristlets are essential — 
(And yet a penitential 
Feeling fills our breast, 
To think that we have seven, 
Or maybe it's eleven. 
Already in our chest) 

"The 'cigs^ are just a blessing" — 
(Emotions quite distressing 
Confound us as we think 
Of "smokes" beyond computing, 
And all the artful looting 
We've done with pen and ink) 



The things they send to rookies, 
From sleeping bags to cookies, 
They come on every mail. 
A ton of stufif we're stacking. 
And when it comes to packing 
We'll have to hold a sale. 

L'ENVOI 

Kind friends, accept our thanks. 

But General Orders say 
A hundred pounds is all 

That we may take away; 
So kindly, if you will, 

Abstain from an addition 
To what we have, until 

We get a Lieufs commission. 



The Latest Horror of War 

*'Two hundred delegates to the Middlesex County W. C. T. U, 
assembled for their annual meeting in the First Baptist Church 
at Watertown adopted resolutions condemning the practice of 
sending gifts of tobacco to soldiers and sailors. Dr. Louis Rand 
of Newton, who presented the resolutions, spoke of the wi' 
jurious effects of tobacco and urged the women to send books 
instead/'-^News Item. 

It's mighty nice to know, 

When muck you're wading through, 
That your health is in the hands 

Of watchful ladies, who 
Are hep that nicotine 

Is worse than German spleen 
And are shipping books for you 

To the land of parlez-vous. 

When frozen to the waist 

By a wind that's whistling keen, 
There's nothing quite so sweet 

As a book by Laura Jean; 
When shells are whizzing past, 

A Chambers, yes, his last, 
Or Anna Katherine Green, 

Will brighten up the scene. 



When sleeping in the rain 

Although the light is dim, 
Just read a page or two 

In "They" or maybe "Kim"; 
And when gassed by nitric shells 
With every breath a stab, 
Try some of James' gab. 
Pick up "The Book of Kells" 
Or the latest thing by Wells! 

L'ENVOI 

Listen, ladies, there's cussing enough in the army now, but if 
you want the boys to put some real pep in their profanity, just 
keep on powwowing about your dream of a smokeless army 
reading Browning and Shaw. The solacing whiff of a "cig" 
isn't such a hell of a lot to give to a man expected to kill or be 
killed; and you never saw a bunch of soldiers try to take 
your tea away and yet you hit the feathers early, get yoiu- three 
squares on a china plate and don't have to mount guard or do 
"kitchen police"; to say nothing of hiking, drilling or going 
over the top. It is silly to yap about the baneful effects of 
nicotine upon a pair of lungs that ten seconds after the last 
"drag" on a cigarette may be blown to blazes. It's too bad to 
have to talk this way to a lot of ladies who have been raised 
nice, and who have good ideas on how to nm a Sunday school, 
but when you think that some day our men over there may be 
feeding the hungry maw of a machine gun, with their tongues 
hanging out for a smoke, and not get it, just because a lot of 
hearth-warmers somewhere in Massachusetts framed up a nutty 
resolution, you can't blame us for treating you rough, can you? 



The White Feather 

When England asked her sons 
To take up arms again, 
One brother said good-bye 
At dawn in the drizzling rain; 
And his step on the creaking stair 
Will never echo there 

Again. Before he left 

He sat at his desk and wrote 

To his brother in the States — 

A simple, scrawling note 

To the brother who had spent 

His youth with him — and sent 

It overseas. He wrote: 
"You know our plighted word 
To stand as one and fight, 
No matter what occurred — 
And now we see the day 
We sought in boyish play, 

So come." The letter sped 
Across the seas, and he 
Went out, as gentry do. 
In all fidelity 

To wait for the rendezvous — 
To wait and wonder, too. 



He went and played the game, 
As any Eton lad 
Is taught to play, and stayed 
To give the best he had, 
Feeling that their troth 
Would surely bind them both; 

And then his answer came 
From the brother overseas: 
He regretted — yes — and yet, 
So understand him please! 

But his brother only knew 
That he must serve for two. 

Through two campaigns he went, 
To see his comrades die; 
And then in the Dardanelles 
He met the Reaper's eye — 
And died in the drizzling rain, 
Crushed and torn with pain. 

To the brother overseas 
Came a letter from the dead — 
Clutched in a steely grip. 
Its corners tinged with red — 
And when he tore the flap 
No writing met his sight. 
But on the floor there fell 
A single feather — white! 



Honorably Discharged 

With the pallor 

Of the hospital 

In their thin cheeks — 

Dull-eyed and insecure 

Of step, they come 

With their discharges. 

Freed from the internment 

Of the hase hospital, 

Foot-loose to go 

Where they will; 

To the huhhuh of the city, 

To office or lathe. 

Or to the even days 

Of life in Vandalia, 

Or Cairo or Belvidere — 

Their journey ended 

Before its beginning. 

With the surgeon's indictment 
In their hands. 
They sag against the wall — 
The salvage of War. 



Carpe Diem 

Out from the House of Life into the Night of Chance 
To walk untrodden ways as toys of Circumstance. 

What does the morrow hold? 
Who can tell — who shall say 
When reckoned by a score 
J We total day by day. 

Through labyrinths unknown we stumble, plunge ahead, 
And some will pass unhurt while others greet the dead. 

What does the scorer say? 
Why try to answer yet — 
We will not be afraid 
Until the Thing is met. 

We find in us the key to sacrifices new. 

So when we meet with death, it may be simple, too. 

What does the cryptic read? 
Conjecture as you may- 
Come link arms with Life; 
Live gladly for today! 



Trains 

Over thousands of miles 

Of shining steel rails, 

Past green and red semaphores 

And unheeding flagmen. 

Trains are running, 

Trains, trains, trains. 

Rattling through tunnels 

And clicking by way stations. 

Curving through hills, past timber. 

Out into the open places. 

Flashing past silos and barns 

And whole villages. 

Until finally they echo 

Against the squat factories 

That line the approach to the cities. 

Trains, trains, trains 

With the fire boxes wide open. 

Giant Moguls and old-time Baldwins 

And oil-burners on the Southern Pacific, 

Fire boxes wide open 

Flaring against the night. 

Like a tremendous watch fire 

Where the sentries cluster at their post. 



Trains, trains, trains 
Serpentine strings of cars 
Loaded with boys and men — 
The legion of the ten-year span 
To whom has been given the task 
Of seeking the Great Adventure. 

Swaying through the North and South, 

And East and West, 

Freighted with the Willing 

And the Unwilling; 

Packed with the Thinking 

And the Unthinking, 

Pushing on to the Unknown 

Away from the shelter and security 

Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. 

Trains, trains, trains 

With their coach sides scrawled 

With chalked bravado and, sometimes. 

With their windows black 

With yelling boys. 

In open-mouthed exultation 

That they do not feel. 

Rushing further and further 

From the known into the unseeable. 



Trains, trains, trains 

With sky-larking boys in khaki, 

Munching sandwiches and drinking pop; 

Or, tired and without their depot swagger, 

Curled up on the red-plush seats; 

Or asleep, with a stranger, in the Pullmans, 

They rush past our camp. 

Which lies against the railroad, 

With the crossing alarm jangling caution 

And fade into the dust or night, 

Leaving us to conjecture where 

As they have left others to wonder — 

As they must wonder themselves 

When they are done 

With the shouting and hand-shaking 

And kissing and hat-waving and singing. 

Trains, trains, trains 

Clicking on into unforecasted days — 

Away from the shelter and security 

Of the accustomed into the Great Adventure. 



On Guard 

A cloudless sky of peaceful stars 
Above a camp in tranquil rest; 
The keen wind stirs the pine trees. 
And the white road stretches on 
Like a path to the warring world. 

Halt! Who goes there? 

Was it nothing but the wind? 
There is a shadow^ on the grass 
iVnd the crunch of brush underfoot. 

Advance, friend, and be recognized! 

Let us see the Future^ s face: 
See if it is friend or foe; 

Let us tear its mask away — 

// this is Fate, then tell us so! 



Mike Dillon, Doughboy 

Mike Dillon was a doughboy 

and wore the issue stuff; 
He wasn't much to look at — 

in fact, was rather rough; 
He served his time as rookie — 

at drilling in the sun, 
And cleared a lot of timber 

and polished up his gun. 

Mike Dillon was a private 

with all the word entails; 
He cussed and chewed tobacco 

and overlooked his nails. 
You never saw Mike Dillon 

at dances ultra nice; 
In fact, inspection found him 

enjoying body lice. 

If Mike had married money 

or had a little drag. 
He might have got a brevet 

and missed a little "fag"; 
But as a social figure 

he simply wasn't there — 
So Mike continued drilling 

and knifing up his fare. 



In course of time they shipped 'em 

and shipped 'em over where 
A man like Mike can sidestep 

the frigid social stare. 
And do the job of soldier 

without the fancy frills. 
And keep a steady footing 

in the pace that really kills. 

Now Mike did nothing special; 

he only did his best: 
He stuck and "went on over" — 

and got it in the chest; 
Played it fair and squarely 

without a social air. 
And Mike is now in Heaven 

And at least a Corporal there! 



The 108th Engineers Passes 

The staccato of drums. 

Beat upon beat; 

Lines of legs 

That flash apart 

And close again 

To flash apart 

In swinging step ; 

The crisp fanfare 

Of strident bugles 

Above the sharp crash 

Of drums; 

Rifles a-slant. 

With bayonets 

A single flash in the sun. 

A blotch of red 

On an orderly's arm — 

The splash of colors 

Against the dust. 

And legs flashing 

As one 

Down the road 

The dull beat 

Of drums 

And the fading cadence 

Of bugles. 



Life as a Gage You Flung 

There in an alien land. 

Quiet you lie. 
Alien no longer now 

For you and I; 
Fragrant the thoughts of you, 

Rare was your soul; 
Life as a gage you flung. 

Facing the goal. 

Life as a gage you flung. 

Flung as a rose; 
Gave it as gentry do, 

Gladly to those 
Who gave their glowing youth 

Gladly as you. 
Live in the heart of me — 

I gave you, too. 



With Guidons Flying Red 

Into the clouds of stifling dust 
With guidons flying red; 
With tromhone and trumpet 
Flashing through the mirage, 
Leading the shadowy silhouette 
Of troopers riding on 
Into the swirling dust; 
With the sea-beat of caissons, 
A deeper note against 
The shouts of command 
And clattering hoof beats, 
The Battery goes. 

Into the clouds of swirling dust — 

Choking, sight-blearing dust — 

A-top of jolting caissons 

Wliich rumble on relentlessly 

Until the silhouette is blurred 

And gone — gone with the gleam of silver 

And guidons flying red. 



Into the clouds of whirling dust 

Goes the Battery on its hike, 

And back through the dust 

It will come — with the grumble 

Of caissons and clatter 

Of hoof beats and shouted commands ; 

With trombone and trumpet 

Gleaming at the column's head. 

But some dull morning, 

Into the mire of Flanders Field 

(Instead of the dust of this mimic march) 

With no guidons flying red 

And no silver gleam at the column's head, 

The Battery will go — 

A shadowy silhouette 

Of troopers riding on. 



The Mystery of the Mess Fund 

A cussing crew of "truckles" fetched from 

San Antone 
Where God Almighty's sunshine burned 'em 

to the bone; 
A fighting bunch of reg'lars shooting craps 

and Mex, 
And driving o. d. Packards through mud 

above their necks. 

When messing all together down in San 
Antone, 

They had a whoppin' mess fund (each com- 
pany has its own) ; 

Then orders came to leave there; so they 
cut the crew in twain 

And some drove up to Houston and some 
went east by train. 



But the bunch that hit it eastwards took the 

fund along. 
While the crew that came to Houston found 

the money gone; 
So somewhere on Long Island a crew is 

messing right, 
While somewhere down in Texas a crew is 

nursing spite. 

L'ENVOI 

Now I'm not exactly yellow, 

But I'd still donate my chance 

Of standing within gunshot 

When those "truckies" meet in France. 



a 



You Were So White, So Soft" 

I knew your gentle touch 

Through all those many years — 
Unheeding then, but now 

How memory endears 
That golden span of time 

And makes me wish anew 
That, since you could not come, 

I might have stayed with you. 

We said good-bye, and yet 

I went without a thought 
Of what my going meant. 

Or how you held me taut; 
And yet the thought of you 

Each night repose defeats — 
Oh, would I knew again 

The luxury of sheets ! 



To F. K. M. 

The earth lies stark in its dreary shroud, 
As dead as the buds that flowered May. 

The moon is wrapped in a fleeing cloud; 
O, for the song of your voice ! 

You had love in your voice 

So thrillingly true, 
That the pipes of Pan 

Were an echo of you! 

My heart grows cold in fright of the blast. 
Like the cry of a loon in a haunted house 

Is the voice of the wind as it rushes past; 
O, for the touch of your hand ! 

You had June in your heart 

And beauty so rare. 
That the roses of God 

Bent low in despair! 

My soul is numbed by the chill of the night; 

A lonely mourner on a lonely hill, 
I stand and watch a phantom light; 

O, for the warmth of your lips! 



